


Spontaneous Me

by electricghoti



Series: Tenebrium/Take Flight [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Romance, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3459926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricghoti/pseuds/electricghoti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Inquisitor Lavellan liberated the slaves of Tevinter and made Dorian Pavus Archon, he commissioned a portrait of her and the head of her elite ancient elvhen forces, Abelas." Based on art by slayerofkillabee.</p><p>Abelas is not a patient man when it comes to sitting for portraits, and so finds a way to amuse himself that ends up getting Lavellan a bit hot and bothered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spontaneous Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Freed Are Slaves](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/100769) by slayerofkillabee. 



After a thousand and more years of service to a god and ten more to a lover, one would think this ancient sentinel possessed masterful patience. In most things, it would be an accurate sentiment. In instances where he must keep still without purpose (such as posing for this ridiculous portrait), an excess of energy simmered beneath the surface. It made him feel almost petulant and pouting, even though he agreed willingly to be part of this commissioned art.  
At least the view was nice.

He reclined against the back of what he learned was a “fainting couch.” The chair provided to him hidden by blue thatch pattern fabric. Rhanae Lavellan was posed on the couch, properly in the forefront of the scene. She was nude, aside from a turquoise line of fabric wrapped low and loose around her waist. The beads and tassels of a sash holding back her hair trailed down her back, which arched heavily to accentuate all that made her a woman. Formidable, yet comfortable in a sexuality that was to be immortalized and shown to a public at large.  
The most famous arm in history, the one attached the hand bearing the so called “Mark of Andraste,” tastefully covered her breasts while leaning an elbow on the arm of the couch. The other rested behind it, holding a dense feather fan of similar color to the silken fabric worn around her. Both of her hands were occupied while she dutifully sat still for the snobby “artiste” currently sketching a short distance away.  
An opportunity, if he ever saw one.

While his left arm held still against the back of the couch, the right would not be shown in the finished product. The latter he brought up with care as he twisted some in the chair for easier reach. The elegantly stitched portion of her hair piece made for the first, and easiest of targets. Plucked. A bird pecking at a seed. No response. Again. Still no reaction. Not even a noise. He exhaled loudly through his nose, a bit put off by her dedication to seriousness. He would have to try a different method.  
He recalled the first true night that started their bond. The one that started with the elven language her kind had forgotten, and most importantly the sensual filth of those pages that had caught her attention. Perhaps a similar audible tactic could be used here, instead? His curiosity regarding her possible reaction could not be ignored. Unlike how he was now.

He reached his hand to her head once more, this time drawing a slender finger upward along the length of one her ears. “Pay attention carefully, Rhanae. These words will be only for you.” He whispered for her ears alone, an audible promise of what to come. Though she merely hummed in acknowledgement, he knew she would be paying attention now.

 

 

He began with curling fingers into the unsecured hair hidden behind her ear. He whispered words spoken by ancient lovers, colorfully embellished by the coarse language of ancient servants. The elvish spoken here would be familiar by now, after ten years of reading every dirty book of poetry and prose known (and some unknown) to modern man. The content this time, however, would be original to him.

He uncurled his fingers from her hair, pulling them through until his knuckles reached the nape of her neck. He stroked, soothed, entirely in contrast to the allusion his improvised words of love and how to love provided. Valiantly nothing was surrendered, at least until he drew away her hair and settled his lips against the back of her neck. The goosebumps tickled his lips until he pulled away. Very reluctantly.

He found his next target in the beaded fabric draped over her back. He smoothed the fabric against her skin, slow and soft. The silk in his voice whispered of satin ribbons, but the velvet spoke of where it would be tied. The blush she could not will herself to hide. The heated color spread even to her ears. A breath hitched involuntarily, the first audible evidence of desire.

His fingers drifted to the base of her neck, two fingertips swirling in gentle strokes before spiraling a path down the curve of her spine. A feather touch combined with cooing words for shape and figure and reverence. A cascading shiver followed the trail his fingers traced, grip tightening on the fan still held in hand. The true encouragement: a breathless sigh of a moan barely kept in check that he heard when his fingers finally reached the line of fabric just below her waist.

“Enough!” A word attempted to be firmly spoken, though diminished by a crack in pitch and breathy tone. Her resolve finally broken, she twisted to face him, face caught between desire and exasperation. The desire he hoped would be the stronger of the two, even as he bore a roguish smile.

“I swear! You're like...like a stray cat who got fed once and keeps pestering for food.” Rolling her eyes, she brought the feathered end of the puffy fan upward with the intent to smack him in the face.  
He flinched, snorting in response to feather fluff invading his nose. He deserved it and it was worth it. “If that's the case,” He began, catching her wrist before it fell. “Perhaps you should be more careful, clever Owl, lest this cat try to devour you whole.”

 

 

“Um, excuse me?” A nasally voice cut through abruptly. “I'm still here. You can't be moving about while I'm working. This is very important and my time is precious.” Two sets of yellow eyes blinked in the artist's direction. One pair mildly annoyed. One pair mildly amused. The latter responded first with a smirk, “Apologies for the show. It would probably be best if you left. You can...sketch a flower or something while you wait. My general seems very insistent about getting my attention.”

Spastic, choppy hand motions followed up with indignant sputtering about how tight the schedule was and the lack of manners. The room quieted with a frustrated slam of the door only after a very impatient elf, irritated at having his wandering hands repeatedly rebutted, countered, “Perhaps you would rather stay and watch until we are finished? You may yet learn something new to impress the greased nug you bed instead of your wife.”

Always wanting the last word of sass, she turned to face her companion, saying, “A little harsh don’t you-”  
Her face was pulled forward by hands cupping her face to abruptly meet his lips, insistent and wanting. Eyes on her. Molten and bright.  
The words on her tongue were lost on his, replaced by his taste of lust and love and claiming “Mine.”  
Her outer resolve had finally broken, and inside her soon to be undone.

 

 

 

"You know Dorian will need to replace this couch tomorrow. It got a little..heated." She gave a him a pointed look, flicking her eyes between his face and a portion of visible fabric. "We’ve made a bit of a mess." A barb she gave without malice, instead with a crooked smirk. The smirk grew into a smile of mirth as he pushed himself from his position on top her, hopping to his feet with an expression of mock concern to analyze the newly revealed fabric.  
“We did no such thing!” He insisted this with certainty, shaking his head repeatedly as if the action would negate her claims. “As for the two of us.. Please allow me to rectify the situation immediately.”

“Like you ‘rectified the situation’ with the painter? We ought to invite the nug over for dinner so you can apologize properly.”He at least had the decency to appear properly contrite as if actually considering her suggestion.His face fell, introspective in expression. The bright expression following moments later combined with an easy shrug of his shoulders. Complete rejection of her idea.  
“Nope.”

With an elegant flourish he aimed to scoop her in his arms, one hand underneath her knees and the other in support of her back. She squirmed in his arms briefly, one hand covering her mouth to suppress a squeal. Feather kisses pressed to the top of her head as he crossed the room toward a curtained doorway hiding an attached bathroom. He ducked backwards to shield her from the fabric before setting her down feet first in front of him on the cool tile. His hands smoothed over her shoulders, the pads of his thumbs rubbing small soothing circles.

“I seem to have forgotten a few words.”He whispered teasingly with his lips grazing her ear.  
“I would be remiss if I failed to properly convey the entire meaning to you. I would understand, however, if you would rather prefer to bathe and return to your duty.” Clever fingers tugged the sash from her hair as he spoke, wrapping a beaded end around each of his hands. His arms were raised over her head to pull the fabric against her belly. A clearly unsubtle hint of which choice he preferred, given the way her arms were trapped inside his.

“Nope. I’d be delighted to learn, but you should know me better by now.” She countered, twisting in his arms to be face to face. There was moment of surprise for him when he suddenly found himself thrust against the wall. A not unwelcome surprise, he noted with no small amount of pleasure when he felt seeking hands wander to his backside.  
“I do what I want.”

“So do I.”

 

 

\------------  
Some time afterward a very exasperated painter is chastised by a very amused Archon.  
“You know, it could have been so much worse. I swear, every time I try to talk to her she’s always occupied with Mr. Sculpted Thighs, or freeing slaves, or pinning smallcloths to Chantry Boards. You could have been stuck there for days. You’re lucky they only stopped you twice.” He paused for a moment, considering before he added, “I should probably save that couch. I’ll make everyone I hate sit on it.”


End file.
